Chains of Command
by WhatIfImaMermaid
Summary: There is never any sneaking around in the dimly lit corridors of ship's night, or discreet Vulcan kisses in the nooks of engineering. Unless Jim is incredibly tired, or stressed, there are no lingering looks on the bridge, either. The stakes are far too high.


There is never any sneaking around in the dimly lit corridors of ship's night, or discreet Vulcan kisses in the nooks of engineering.

Unless Jim is incredibly tired, or stressed, there are no lingering looks on the bridge, either.

The stakes are far too high.

They realize soon enough that they cannot be trusted to be alone in their private quarters. They move their chess games to the rec room on Deck 5, because it's quiet but never deserted. Confidential command team briefings in the Captain's ready room are unavoidable, and they learn to make do. Jim relies a lot on Spock's restraint for that, and it's not as if he doesn't feel like shit about it.

They don't spar. Ever.

If their hands, or their shoulders, accidentally brush while they are walking side by side… it doesn't bear thinking about.

And yet, for years, Jim thinks about little else.

...

He doesn't meet Spock until his third year at the Academy, when they fight, then they save the universe together, and then they make up.

All in all, it's days before Jim gets a good look at him without the threat of either academic probation or interplanetary annihilation. Once he does, though, he likes what he sees.

The grace. The strength. The attitude.

The ears are not bad either, he supposes.

Leave it to Jim Kirk to develop a bit of a crush on his ex-girlfriend's roommate's boyfriend. If that's what those two even are, anyway.

"Commander." They are alone in the turbolift, going down to Engineering to pretend to reprimand Scotty for various unauthorized modifications to an assortment of warp components. Spock turns his head to face him. Jim doesn't reciprocate. "Should you be initiating the paperwork to transfer Lieutenant Uhura to my chain of command?"

Spock faces back straight to the front of the turbolift. "Negative, Captain." He doesn't elaborate.

The lift comes to a halt, and the doors open.

Spock exits first, and Jim allows himself a small, satisfied smile before following him out.

...

From then on, it pools slowly, inexorably, like water behind a dam.

It trickles down as they find their place on their ship and in a world without Vulcan; across milk-runs and razor's edge missions; stoked by harsh, unkind words exchanged on the bridge during disagreements, and amused, conspiratorial looks they share in the maze of corridors they walk shoulder to shoulder.

Jim's pursuit is single minded.

And Spock… Spock never stood a chance.

They fall in love as the stars blur past them.

...

Once the five-year mission launches into the wide silence of deep space, it doesn't take much for the dam to collapse.

The hour is late. A lucrative trade deal with a civilization that is generally not very keen on the Federation has been successfully negotiated. And to celebrate, Scotty has generously distributed part of the products of Scotty's distillery.

Above all, they are alone in the observatory on Deck 3, the weight of their shared victories and losses drawing them closer.

They were always going to end up here, in this exact position.

First, sitting on the cool, metal floor, back leaning on the bulkhead, starlight playing on their skin.

And then, Jim folding into Spock, one hand to the side of each hip, and what has got to be an idiotic smile on his lips before they crush against Spock's.

Because _this_. This is what Jim's been thinking about for what is now over a year.

And it's been too long a time coming.

His tongue slowly licks the inside of Spock's mouth, is lightly sucked on in response, and holy shit, it feels about twice as mind-blowing as he always imagined it would.

He feels a splendidly hot, large Vulcan hand slide up into his hair and a thumb stroking in front of his ear, and Jim thinks that maybe, _just maybe_ , he's not going to make a fool of himself and come in his uniform pants without Spock touching him anywhere but on the side of his face.

Though it doesn't seem likely, because the base of his spine is tingling dangerously, and Spock just sighed inside his mouth and arched a bit under him, and Jim is very, very tempted to reach for the fastening of the Vulcan's fatigues and put that mouth to good use so that he can hear those sighs evolve into groans.

"Yes," Jim tells him.

He's not sure yes, to what.

 _Yes, I'm very close to make a mess of myself and have you lick it off me._

 _Yes, I've been thinking about this approximately since the day you smashed me into Sulu's console._

 _Yes, I want to spend the rest of my life with your mind planted firmly inside my skull, fuck that logical expression out of you, and keep you well and truly fucked so that it doesn't come back._

All of the above, probably.

Which is why it takes his sluggish, in-love brain an inordinate amount of time to register that Spock has stopped kissing him and is saying, "No."

 _No?_

Jim pulls back to look at Spock, whose breathing is as choppy as Jim's and who's now sporting bright green cheekbones to boot. He looks _enchanting_.

And also, Jim realizes, sad. Spock looks dismayed.

He shakes his head without letting go of Jim's. When he talks, his breath is deliciously warm on his lips. "Jim. Jim, this cannot happen."

"What are you talking about?" He licks the corner of Spock's mouth. The taste is delicious.

Spock's grip on Jim's face tightens. "Jim. This is not… compatible with our respective roles aboard the Enterprise."

For someone who's so smart, Jim can be astonishingly dumb.

He tries to push down his blood pressure and focus less on the fact that Spock's ass is three millimeters from his right thumb and more on what the Vulcan is actually saying. "What do you mean? We just need to remove you from my chain of comma—"

He stops abruptly, feeling his carefully built existence on board of the Enterprise, within Starfleet, crumble at the sheer idiocy of his own words.

Fuck. _Fuck_.

The silence between them dilates as Jim considers the implications of his realization, heart rate showing no sign of going back to normal.

Spock doesn't speak, and really, there is no need for him to say anything. He just looks at Jim for a handful of seconds, and then takes the base of his head in both hands and pulls Jim to him, so that their foreheads are touching.

He kisses Jim gently. Once.

And Jim is still so flabbergasted by his own stupidity that he can't even pull together the motor control necessary to kiss Spock back, or to stop him while he disentangles himself and gets on his feet, exiting the observation deck without a single word.

The swish of the door, the sound of Spock's steps, dissolve into the pounding at Jim's temples.

They never speak of it again.

...

Jim first studies Article 7 for his Ethics and Moral class, in his second semester at the Academy.

The class is slow-paced, and dull, and the professor makes a point of telling cadets that he has no intention of failing anyone. Never a good combination to keep Jim's attention.

The phrasing of the General Orders and Regulations is dull, packed with convoluted expressions from several generations ago, and clearly aiming to micromanage the discovery of uncharted space and possibly murder any sense of adventure by means of drowning it in punctuation guidelines for reports.

Please.

Plus, this is _before_. When Jim cannot be bothered to believe that rules valid for everyone else also apply to him. When he still hasn't failed at turning every single 'no' he's ever been told into a 'yes.'

So he pretty much ignores the course for months and crams the night before the test, smiling gratefully at Gaila when she finds him in the library and deposits a fuming cup of coffee next to his PADD.

By morning, he can recite more or less by heart all regulations. In a twist of what, in hindsight, he'll refer to as tragic irony, at the oral examination he gets questioned about Article 7.

It's about fraternization between Starfleet commissioned officers, which is highly, more than highly discouraged, but not strictly forbidden. That is, unless either party falls within the other's chain of command. In that case, any relationship is absolutely out of the question, at the risk of court martial, unless the supervisory authority on the lower raking officer can be reassigned to a third officer, who must of course be higher ranking.

Easy peasy.

He aces the exam, and forgets all about Article 7.

...

The morning after, the Enterprise is already halfway across the quadrant, and he and Spock both scheduled to be part of a landing party. It's a scientific survey, with a light chance of rebel uprising. Business as usual.

Jim's brain feels like it's made of spun cotton.

Spock can't be that hot either, because he arrives to the transporter room two minutes after Jim.

It's unheard of.

They are silent while they fumble with their protective gear, the quiet of the room occasionally interrupted by the sleepy banter of the transported technicians and last-minute briefings from other members of the away team.

Jim claps his hands to get everyone attention. "Ok team, get in position. We're beaming down."

He turns to survey the room, and his eyes catch his first officer's. As people move around them, they stare at each other for one, two, three seconds.

Jim swallows.

Spock nods once. Then, he drops his gaze and heads for the transported pad.

...

By nature, Jim is one to blatantly disregard any directive that will stand between him and his goals, especially if he does not perceive it as reasonable or well justified.

Because fuck that shit.

But this. This is different.

About two years ago, a couple of months before their their first mission, most of the gossip material at HQ came from an incident that led to the disbanding of the command team of the Andromeda, due to the nature of the relationship between then-Captain Bedchel and her first officer. When proof was provided that the two had been having an affair for several years, the question of the integrity of the Captain's supervisory authority was raised.

Both officers were court martialed, and while the proceedings of the trial were not made public, in the end there was no trace of either of them to be found on Starfleet's databases.

And Jim knew where to look.

"The take home message, Jim," Bones told him at the time, not quite drunk enough to slur his words, but gesticulating quite a bit more than usual, "is that you can screw pretty much whoever you want on your ship, except your first officer, because there is no one you can transfer _that_ supervisory authority to." At the time, Uhura being his first officer had been a concrete possibility, and Bones' words were accompanied by a pointed, if somewhat glassy, look. "That, or you _do_ screw you first officer, and then ride with her into the sunset and forget all about the Enterprise."

Which is what makes _this_ different.

This is James Kirk's legacy, begun the day his father served his first and last twelve minutes as the Captain of a starship, fitfully evolved as he grew up underneath the shadow of Enterprise, and blossomed the day one Captain Pike reminded him of who he was.

As for Spock… Jim does not claim to understand Spock's relationships with _his_ father, but him joining Starfleet appears to be the main reason why most of their interactions are the Vulcan equivalent of exchanging a frosty birthday card every other year or so, and there is no way such a far-reaching decision was driven by a passing whim.

 _This_ is the stars.

And where they are, is where they want be.

To continue on board the Enterprise, together as Captain and first officer, is non-negotiable.

As for the rest, it has to be.

...

Bones stares at Jim indecipherably while amber liquid fills both their glasses.

"Do you want to talk about it?"

Jim shakes his head slowly, eyes looking down at his own hand swirling the drink. He takes one sip, and then another. "No."

...

Maybe they exchange one look too many.

Maybe it's because Jim Kirk hasn't been screwing around, and people have been putting two and two together.

Maybe it's just that everyone enjoys talking about shit they know nothing of.

Regardless, the rumors on the Captain of the Enterprise and his Commander grow, unfueled by action if not by the force of their combined desire.

When they are on earth for a quick refit, they get called in by the Admiralty, and this time even Jim's optimism is not enough to delude him into thinking that the meeting means anything but trouble.

Jim's dress uniform feels too tight around his biceps as they head over to Nogura's office. Spock is as expressionless as ever, but as they sit in the waiting room, Jim notices that he his eyes stay close longer than usual when blinks, and that he breathes deeply each time.

They are both unnaturally still.

"No inappropriate relationship is taking place between Commander Spock and me, Admiral." Jim tells Nogura placidly, hoping he can't see him gritting his teeth, but pushed just a little bit past caring.

The admiral leans back on his chair. "That is not what I have been hearing."

"Then maybe you should get your hearing che—"

Spock interjects before Jim can get himself court martialed. "Sir, with all due respect, your sources are in error."

"Are they, now?" Nogura grabs a holo from his desk and makes a show of studying it. Admirals and their fucking power plays. It's an image two dark-haired girls, both teenagers. It's hard to imagine Nogura not being this big of an asshole twenty-four seven, but if he has grandkids then maybe he restricts his dick-headedness to when he's on duty. "Well," the admiral continues, "let's make sure that they stay _in error_. Dismissed."

They salute and head for the door, Spock exiting first. Jim has one foot out the office when Nogura's voice reaches him.

"Kirk. If these rumors get any louder, you are going to have to find yourself a new first officer. Is that clear?"

Jim doesn't answer.

They are silent on the way back to Spacedock.

...

It doesn't penetrate the haze of Jim's rage until days later.

He tells Spock during a chess match, his tone subdued and deceptively casual, eyes never leaving the chessboard.

"The are looking for an excuse to get you off the Enterprise and give you the captaincy of that science Vessel's that's almost complete."

Two birds with a stone. They get the best science officer of the 'fleet to command the newest and shiniest ship, and weaken the position of its most controversial Captain by taking away an irreplaceable member of his crew.

Spock moves his bishop. "I am well aware, Captain."

He is unreadable. Jim feels a frisson of uncertainty, and lifts his eyes for the first time since he sat at the table. "Spock, if that is what you want…"

Silence. Someone drops something small and metallic a few tables to their right, and then laughs about it.

Jim feels the bottom of his stomach plummet.

And then, he notices how tightly Spock is clutching his queen.

"Command is not what I desire."

Spock checkmates.

...

So, Jim doesn't slap Spock on the back, or grasp his shoulder when leaning in to peer at the monitors of the science console, or tease him when he nitpicks everyone into unconsciousness.

The temperature controls in Spock's room break mysteriously, beyond maintenance's, and even Scotty's ability to repair, so that he needs to transfer to another cabin, located on the same deck but without a shared bathroom with the Captain.

Three becomes the magic number: when Jim and Spock find themselves in a room with less than three other people for non strictly ship-related business, an exit strategy needs to be in place.

And when Chekov announces the Captain's presence on the bridge, Spock never, ever lifts his eyes from his work.

The night on the observation deck lies between them, unattended, concealed, and yet shaping their every action and thought on board of the Enterprise.

...

"But it was true love!"

It's how Chekov says it, like 'true' is spelled with al least seven _r_ s, and the adorable way in which he punctuates each word with a wave of his spoon, that makes it hard not to want to side with him.

"All I'm saying is, they were young. Kids. Basically infants." McCoy wanted to be done with this argument five minutes ago. Obviously. "They could have just waited a couple of years, see how things went, maybe found jobs to support themselves—"

"Yeah, I hear Target was hiring big time in sixteenth-century Verona." Jim winks at Chekov, who smiles back gratefully.

"Also, wasn't Juliet promised to that other guy who was also having sex with her mother? If she and Romeo had waited a few years she might have had kids of her own already. It would have been harder to elope," Sulu adds reasonably.

Bones' forehead is getting more and more furrowed. "So, what you're saying is that knowing someone for three days and being convinced that that person is 'the one' is justification enough to set in motion a chain of events that will lead to the death of eight people—"

"Six." Spock and Uhura correct McCoy's body count simultaneously, both without lifting their gaze from their meals.

Jim and Sulu high-five. Chekov is glowing with validation, looking endearingly smug. Bones, too scared of Uhura to go after her, narrows his eyes at Spock.

"Et tu, Mister Spock?" Bones sputters. "Isn't love illogical and all that? Doesn't Surak roll over in his grave every time two people so much as hold hands?"

Spock does that thing where he barely lifts the right corner of his mouth while giving Bones a sardonic look.

"On the contrary, Doctor. Love is rarely illogical, and never as much as its disavowal." He pokes a tomato slice with his fork. "Furthermore, Surak was cremated."

Chekov exults. Bones gives all of them a withering look and gathers his tray, mumbling about misspent youth and how Shakespeare is overrated.

Jim looks anywhere but at Spock.

...

That night, Spock is scheduled to relieve Jim at the end of beta shift.

As they pass each other outside of the turbolift, the back of Spock's hand straightens and lightly grazes Jim's knuckles.

It lasts only a split second.

It's the first time they touch in over ten months.

It will not happen again for eight more.

...

On the average _Constitution_ -class starship, for both safety and efficiency monitoring purposes, the location of every crewmember can be established by asking the computer a simple question.

On the average _Constitution_ -class starship, officers' whereabouts and biosignals are constantly recorded and stored at the cortical level, and can be easily retrieved remotely given the proper security clearance.

Barring some serious hacking, Jim considers, staring at the ceiling in his quarters, crumpled sheets bunched up right below his hipbones, there is very little chance to keep a secret on the average _Constitution_ -class starship.

...

Precisely eight months later, Spock enters his quarters to find lights at forty percent and Jim inside, sitting cross-legged on his bed and clutching a bottle of brandy Bones recently confiscated from one of the nurses.

 _Ooops_ , Jim thinks, _should've taken off my boots. Now he'll get mad._

He giggles.

"Captain, what are you doing here?" Spock has stepped inside just enough to be out of sensor range, allowing the door to close behind him. But now he's just standing right past entrance, looking at Jim with wariness, as if he were a _le-matya_ waiting to pounce.

Which he might possibly be.

"I thought we could hang out."

The possibilities are two, Jim muses. He's either sober enough that he can still think clearly, or he's so wasted that he can't even realize that he's out of his mind.

Both work pretty well for him.

"How long have you been in my quarters?"

Jim shrugs, and takes a large swig of his drink. It's truly disgusting. Jim hates brandy. Spock, on the other hand, looks a lot like he might hate Jim.

 _He doesn't_ , a whiny voice reminds him. _That's what got the two of you in this mess to begin with._

"Captain, it is critical that you vacate my quarters immediately. I will help you return to yours—"

"No waaaay!" he yells. Spock flinches. Jim notices, grins apologetically and lowers his voice. "Let's have tea. Vulcan tea. No, gross. Hey, let's play chess. You still have your set in here, right? Do you remember when we used to play in here all the time? You would thrash me, and I used to complain about that and about the heat. And then we would talk about all kinds of shit, like books, and hovercars, and the best brands of plasma coolant." He leans back against the bulkhead, feeling his own smile widen. "And—"

"Jim."

"—it didn't feel like we were just waiting for something be over. We weren't extra careful about every single fucking thing, like that time you touched my hand and—"

"Jim."

"—what was it that I felt? Was that your mind, Spock? I've been wondering, because I gotta tell you, I haven't been quite myself since—"

"Jim, cease." Spock's voice is firm. Not harsh, like it used to be at the very beginning, when he still thought that his job was to babysit Jim's ass and keep him out of trouble. Or like it still is with misbehaving ensigns who are too big for their britches, when they're stupid enough to take on Spock. But still, firm. "You know you cannot be in here."

Jim takes another gulp from the bottle, and then rearranges himself so that he's sitting on the side of the bed, booted feet on the ground. He lays the bottle next to his right foot, making a mental note not to knock it over.

Ha. As if.

"You know what, Spock? I've been thinking."

He should continue, he knows, but he just looks at his first officer. Oh god, he really loves to look at his first officer. Not just stealing a quick glance, eyes sliding over his face while he's reporting something, which is all he allows himself these days.

Because for years he's been fucking _perfect_ , when it comes to Spock.

No, sir, now he actually lets himself stare at the long lines, the narrow hips, the swelling of the pecs, the goddamn cheekbones, _the lips_ , until he's finally drunk up his fill.

So many species trying to come up with the most excruciating way to torture Jim Kirk, and Starfleet had the answer all along. Fuck you very much, Nogura.

Jim rediscovers the thread of his thoughts. "I've been thinking, and I most definitely do not _know_ that I cannot be in here. I really don't."

Spock crosses his arms in front of his chest, and closes his eyes for about five seconds. When he opens them, he sighs, and his expression in kind.

"Jim, what happened today was not your fault."

Jim waves his right hand dismissively. "Of course it is. The lives of those four men are solidly on my shoulders."

"You did not take part of the mission. And even if you had, given the intelligence in our possession we could never have predicted that the natives—"

"You know, Spock, it doesn't even matter. It doesn't fucking matter. You know what does matter? That _you_ were on that mission. And that for the millionth time, you are only alive by sheer _luck_." Jim stands and walks up to Spock, abandoning his bottle by the bed. There are maybe three feet between them. "If you had beamed down two meters to the left, we would have had five casualties instead of four. Tell me once more Vulcans don't believe in luck and I swear to god that I'm gonna crush your skull with your meditation stone." The last words are spoken with a vehemence that Jim cannot remember ever using before.

Spock is wise enough to stay silent.

Which apparently is what Jim needs to deescalate and not thrash his first officer's quarters. He feels the hatred and fury drain from him, leaving behind helplessness and misery.

"Spock, if something had happened today, I…" Jim swallows. He takes a deep breath. "It's been years, and I… I'm not sure I can do this anymore."

Spock is staring at Jim like he's being torn in two. The next person who says that Vulcans are emotionless, Jim is going to punch in the face. Period.

And then, without really knowing who started it, they are sharing an embrace, arms tight around the other, bodies completely flush, thirsty for real contact after ages of crumbles.

"Jim," Spock breaths into the base of his neck, and Jim is clearly not that drunk after all, because his chest is overflowing with something sweet and dick's as hard as rock and leaking against Spock's abdomen.

He takes Spock's head in his hands, and speaks in earnest. "We can resign. We can leave Starfleet, and… there are other lives we could have. I'll come to New Vulcan if that's what you want. And I will chain you to my fucking side so that I don't risk losing you every other day, and I will touch you and look at you and listen to your voice until I have _consumed_ you. I will fuck you so much that you can't remember what it feels not to have me inside you, and I'm gonna graft my mind inside yours, and you said you wanted kids—"

"Jim." Spock's hands grip Jim's wrist, still clutching his face.

He has always known, of course, that Spock's fingers have psiceptors on top of normal sensory receptors, and has experienced first hand _something_ that is beyond simple skin to skin contact when they touched even accidentally. Back when they still touched accidentally, of course. This, however is the first time he can feel Spock purposefully trying to reach him, to press a thought inside him. It feels warm, and enveloping. Not quite sexual, though that is one of the effects it has on Jim, but more like…

Reassurance. Spock is trying to reassure him. And for the first time in days, months, years, Jim feels contained. Outlined. As if Spock is the glue that keeps the pieces of him together.

"Jim, Starfleet needs you as direly as you need Starfleet." Jim wants to deny it, but whatever is flowing through him is sucking the fight and the frustration right out. "Leaving is not a decision you can make while intoxicated, or while emotionally compromised after a disastrous operation."

Jim lets go of Spock's face, letting his arms fall down his sides. Spock doesn't let go of his wrists.

"We have three more years. Of the mission. I don't think I can wait that long." He wonders if his eyes look as tired as Spock's.

Spock nods, and he steps back. Jim feels immediately cold and bereft. "You should not be deferring your happiness and live in wait for something, Jim. It is painful, and illogical. I certainly do not wish you to. Others will be able to provide what I cannot."

Jim stares wide eyed at Spock as panic rises, fueled by the alcohol in his system. He shakes his head. "No. No."

Spock sighs. "Jim. You are human, and emotional contact is necessary to your well-being—"

"And what about you?" he shoots back belligerently. "How have _you_ been, Spock? Just peachy, right?"

Spock doesn't even have the grace to look hurt. "Jim—"

"The past three years have been a piece of cake for you, right? You said it yourself that day, that turning your back to something like this was illogical! But no, you don't need anyone, and if you did you'd just meditate it all away anyway—"

"Jim."

"—you know what you are, Spock? Scared shitless. This thing that I feel, that _you_ feel, it's so big that you're fucking petrified and have no idea—"

"Jim!" Spock's tone is unforgiving, and his expression is not dissimilar from the one he wore the day Jim goaded him into attacking him. "I would have resigned from Starfleet years ago if I were convinced that it is what you want, or what you need." There are leaning into each other, faces so close that Jim can see the speckles of black in Spock's eyes. They are both breathing heavily. "You know _nothing_ of my feelings."

Jim feels himself sway on his feet.

"Now, kindly vacate my quarters, Captain, or I _will_ call security."

Jim leaves.

...

"So, is it true?"

"What?"

"That he asked for a transfer?"

Jim looks up from the modulator he's helping Scotty recalibrate. "Who?"

"Mister Spock." Jim feels his eyes go wide and just stares at Scotty. Apparently, for too long. "You know Spock, right? Yay tall, pointy ears, wee bangs?"

Jim frowns. "Of course I know Spock, he's my first officer. Where did you hear that?"

Scotty shrugs and punches a sequence on numbers in the manual interface. "I don't remember, but rumors that get as far down as Engineering usually turn out to be true. Pavel tells me things have been a bit frosty on the bridge."

They have. For weeks.

Actually, it's been months by now.

"So, did he?"

Jim hands him the wrench. "No."

Scotty accepts it with nod. "Do you reckon he will?"

Jim wonders, with varying degrees of dread and resignation, several times a day.

And yet, Spock remains by his side as the mission progresses.

...

Bones looks at Jim with concern, his desk cluttered between them. "Do you want to talk about it?"

Jim hangs his head, presses into his eyes with the heels of his hands, left and right, for several seconds. He looks back at the doctor before saying, "No."

Bones nods. "He said the same."

Jim's not surprised. By this point, they both have very little use for words.

So he doesn't react, and instead studies the Deltan anatomy poster on the office wall. Curiously different from human, he notes. Who would have guessed?

"I just hope your _stars_ are worth this, Jim."

...

Jim doesn't plan for it, and he's sure as hell not doing it because Spock encouraged him to. Both directly, on that disastrous night Jim only has very hazy and shame-filled memories of, and indirectly, by assigning him to the third group scheduled to beam down on Starbase IV. Right when the bars are at their busiest.

In the end, it comes down to the fact that he's exhausted, and lonely, and well… he's Jim Kirk, and if there's something he excels at, it's being horny. Drunkenly so.

He gets hit on by at least five different species, and picks the candidate who looks the least like Spock. She is blonde, human, and Jim doesn't quite catch her name. But she has a room nearby, and as they get closer and closer, he pushes the feeling of defeat further and further from his mind.

It's been years, and it's not as if he hasn't missed fucking.

It's just that any craving for sexual intimacy has been inextricably tangled with a sweeter, sharper longing for something entirely different, and all of this has a flat, lifeless flavor that makes it hard to muster the necessary enthusiasm.

Nonetheless, this is familiar territory for Jim Kirk, and she's a good lay, and he can go on autopilot, and even close his eyes and pretend to be some place else, if necessary.

Which, at a certain point, it turns out to be.

Beaming back up is a bit of a walk of shame. Because his first stayed on board to man the fort, and will be summoned in transporter room to update the Captain as soon as he arrives. And because enough people who were in that bar with him have already returned that the rumor has to have spread.

When Spock takes in Jim's leather jacket and ratty t-shirt, his expression is softer than it's been in months.

Jim disintegrates a little.

"I trust you're happy, now." His tone is low, in consideration of the ensign manning the controls. There is no possibility of misunderstanding what Jim is referring to.

Spock's eyes are oceans of humanity. "I was hoping _you_ would be, Jim."

Jim huffs a silent laugh. "Then think again, Spock."

He walks back to his quarters and exhausts his hot water supply.

...

It's endless, lonesome moments of warp trails and smudges of void. Long hauls between different stretches of planets, sometimes interrupted by suicide missions or boring diplomatic talks.

The only constant is the starlight, always visible from his porthole, from the bridge viewscreen, from the observation decks.

It's ironic, Jim thinks sometimes while he's alone in his quarters, contemplating getting wasted, that the stars keep providing him solace from the loss of the very thing that they cost him.

...

When it comes to a head, it's very near the end of the mission.

"The must be an alternative," he says for what has to be the sixth time in as many minutes.

"You know there is not, Captain," Spock answers, not without a hint of impatience, absorbed by the task of putting on the lower part of his EVA suit. They are in the ready room next to the transporter pad. "At least, not one with better odds of success."

Bones snorts. "Yeah, that twenty-nine percent you estimated is hard to top."

"Twenty-nine point eight nine, Doctor."

That McCoy lets it go with only a look of mild disdain speaks volume on the urgency of the situation and his degree of concern for Spock.

But, two-thirds of the bridge crew is currently in Med Bay being treated for one injury or another, and they are not going to be able to breach the shields of the Romulan ship that has been attacking them. No one on the Enterprise is under any illusion that the current truce is anything but a brief chance to regroup. The plan Jim proposed is to use a minor glitch in their enemies' defenses to board them and sabotage their systems from the inside.

In hindsight, he's not sure he'd have voiced it out loud if he had known Spock would volunteer.

Turns out, there's a reason behind all that crap about socialization regulations, emotional compromise and endangering the crew, after all.

"You do know you're going to die in there, right?" Bones has been very communicative about not liking the plan.

Spock doesn't spare him a glance as he pulls a thermic tunic over his blue uniform. "I do not know the future, and neither do you, Doctor, regardless of your medical degree. Furthermore, the needs of the many outweigh the needs of the f—"

Bone smacks his lips. "Come on, there is no guarantee this is even going to succeed. We should just back out of here."

"As you know, given the speed currently available to us, the Romulans would reach us long before we can get out of their weaponry range." He hooks the jacket.

"Shouldn't you at least bring a red shirt with you? For back-up"

Spock grabs the helmet, signaling to Jim that he's ready to go. "That would only increase the chances of being discovered and needlessly endanger another crewmember, Doctor. I am able to carry out this mission on my own."

Bones swears more colorfully than Jim has heard him in a while, and just looks between Spock and Jim.

"Fine. I'm gonna get out of here, so you two can… say goodbye."

"It would be best if you did not," Spock says quickly, looking truly alarmed for the first time since they run into the Romulan ship.

Jim finds it weirdly adorable, to know that Spock is more scared of what he feels for him than of death by Romulan disruptor.

Bones eyes him incredulous. "Oh, come on. One fucking—"

"Bones, no." Jim interrupts him firmly _._

Spock might be scared what Jim makes him feel, but ten seconds alone with Spock and Jim would not be able to let him go. Not six months before the end of the mission.

Not after five years spent in the special kind of hell that is being in love with his first officer.

He faces Spock. "You ready?"

The transporter room is filled with engineers and comm officers, ready to monitor Spock's frequencies and bring him back as soon the his task has been completed. The atmosphere is thick with dread. Everyone understands how unlikely Spock is to succeed.

Once they're standing in front of the transporter, Jim grins at Spock and tells him loudly, "That looks good on you, Mister Spock. I bet there's porn of Vulcans in EVA suits." Everyone around him laughs weakly, a few groan, but it has the desired effect and the tension melts a little.

Jim leans forward with the pretense of adjusting the connection between the helmet and the earpiece Spock will use to keep touch with the Enterprise, and whispers in his ear, "I hope you realize that if you're not back in one hour, I'm going to beam on that ship, drag you back, and fuck you on the transporter pad in front of Scotty for good measure."

Jim gives a last check to Spock's microphone and then leans back, patting him on his well-padded shoulder. "You're all set."

Spock nods at Jim steadily, and they both know what he's agreeing to.

"Good luck, Commander. Not that you need it."

When Spock comes back, thirty-seven minute later, Jim starts breathing again.

...

The following night, when the danger is past, and the repairs are underway, and the reports are written and forwarded, Jim uses his override code to enter Spock's quarter.

His first officer is sitting on his couch, reading from a PADD with a concentrated expression. He is wearing Starfleet issue sleepwear, and, uncharacteristically, his feet are propped on the coffee table.

At his sight, the aching vibration inside Jim's chest, the one that began the day he resigned himself to just _wait_ for all that he longs for, the same that intensified tenfold yesterday, as he realized that he was going to expend Spock's life for his crew's safety, eases marginally.

This is, of course, not a prearranged meeting. And yet, when Spock looks up, he has the grace of not feigning surprise.

"Computer, lock quarters." Jim leans back against the closed door and holds Spock's eyes as rattles off his instructions. "Should there be any inquiries, on or off-board, the response will be that Captain Kirk is currently in his cabin. Redirect any calls to my cabin to Commander Spock's. Authorization code Five Seven Seven Alpha Gamma Four."

"Authorized." Jim is faintly shocked that the computer's disembodied voice holds no reproach.

He keeps staring at Spock, gives him about five seconds and one single chance to object. He expects at least a token attempt at resistance, but is inordinately pleased when it doesn't come. Maybe Spock is coping with this better that Jim gave him credit for.

He licks his lips. "Interrupt recording of vitals for Commander Spock and Captain Kirk for… reprise time is tomorrow morning at nine AM."

"Recordings interrupted."

Spock stands and looks at Jim evenly. "It will take a considerable amount of time to falsify and replace the missing data, Captain. To scrub the logs, as well."

Jim gives him his most lascivious half-smile. "I trust you will make it worth my while, Mister Spock."

Spock's mouth does that corner thing, and after discarding his PADD, he takes off his t-shirt with a fluid movement. "I shall endeavor."

He fucking does.

He sinks on his knees in front of Jim, who is still slumped against the entrance, and it's not that Jim doesn't appreciate having his cock sucked to begin with, but—this is Spock, and he could have died less than twenty-four hours ago, and their last physical contact, which was _nothing_ compared to this, was two years or so before, and he is tenderly rubbing his cheek against Jim's skin, Jim's dick, even as he softly licks his balls—Jim goes off in under one minute, desperate not to close his eyes and take in the green flush, the black eyelashes, the throat working silently. The pleasure is mind blowing.

"In my defense," he pants, swirling his thumb into the come coating Spock's cheek and pushing it inside the Vulcan's hot mouth, stroking it against his rough tongue, "the foreplay lasted about five years."

When Spock stands, as sinuously as ever, and they kiss, Jim's as hard as he's ever been. Spock purrs hotly, "No defense is necessary," inside his ear before Jim maneuvers him to the bed.

They have, of course, been naked together more times than they can count. But their mission within the mission has been to pretend that they could live without this, without _wanting_ this, and stolen looks in the locker room would have resulted in catastrophic failure. So, the need is coupled with a fair amount of discovery, and with the desperation due to the awareness that this is not the first night of many, not yet, but a prelude to something that will have to wait at least six more months to see the light.

Spock is… _perfect_. For Jim, and for the matrix of his desires. Jim cannot help but being stupefied by the way his very stoic first officer is dissolving under him, all husky noises and sallow skin bruising easily beneath Jim's exploring hands and mouth.

"I think about this all the time," he breathes into the tender part of Spock's throat before placing a bite that has the Vulcan whimper. "I try not to look at you and then you're walking in front of me and… you can be distracting, Spock." He flips them so that they're side to side, and licks up the column of Spock's neck as his hand wonders lower, purposefully avoiding the Vulcan's cock and wrapping around his ass, lingering for a few seconds on the cheek before aiming for his hole.

Spock moans, eyes unfocused, and says, "Jim. I do not try to be," in a voice that makes Jim very happy he had an orgasm about seven minutes ago and the edge is at least little bit off.

"And to think," He licks Spock's lips as he eases the tip of his middle finger inside him. It's mouthwateringly tight. Warmer than he expected, and he had Spock's mouth around him very, very recently. "And to think that you had me go and fuck someone else." His digit slides a little further inside Spock, and they both moan.

Jim will need to get lube soon, but for now, in a sort of sick revenge, he it wants to hurt a little. He wants Spock to feel the bite. Not that Spock seems to mind, since he's breathing faster than Jim has ever seen, and they've outrun people who wanted to kill them plenty. "Don't worry, I thought of you the whole time to stay hard."

He moves his other hand and uses it to stroke Spock's dick and holy shit, this is Spock, and he doesn't look horny, he looks _ruined_. Jim hastily grips the base of Spock's cock trying to stave off his orgasm. "Wait. Not yet."

Spock slams his eyes shut as if in agonizing pain, biting Jim's shoulder. When he's at least partially recovered, he climbs up on his elbow, enveloping Jim's face in his hand and kissing him beautifully, like he did so long ago, right after he broke Jim's heart for the first time. "I am sorry, Jim."

And yeah, this show needs to get on the road, stat.

It's not as if he could reasonably expect Spock to have supplies in his cabin, so he takes the lube from his own pocket and about five heartbeats later the are both naked and grinding on each other more uncoordinatedly than he's proud to admit.

Jim has imagined this enough in the past that he knows exactly where he wants to go, what he wants to touch, and smell, and hear. His fingers make room inside Spock's body as Spock's hand grip the sheets, and Jim whispers to him not to worry, that he's gonna make it good, that Spock deservers the good fuck he's about to get, that Jim's about to pump five years worth of come and heartache inside his ass.

Then Spock is on his back, pupils exploded into his irises, going a little more crazy than Jim would have guessed he ever would in bed. He is caged by Jim's arms, Jim's cock aligned and ready to enter, and god, this is happening, this is fucking happening and Jim's never going to ask for anything ever again—

"Meld us." Jim utters the words on Spock's lips, between gasps of pleasure, before they can even cycle through his frontal lobe.

Spock looks at him, dazed. "Jim, you… do you…?"

"Yes." He bites Spock's nipple. "Meld us."

Spock shivers. Holy shit, his Vulcan is sensitive. He tries to impale himself over Jim's dick, only remembering to answer halfway through a particularly elegant move. "A meld is a serious…"

Jim straightens his arms so that he's higher up, denying Spock access to his cock as well as the rest of his body.

"No, Spock. I know you well enough. You don't get to do this without acknowledging what it means for either of us. Meld us."

For a split second, Spock looks like he's going to put up a fight. But it's fleeting, and before Jim can pretend to have the willpower to pull away from this should Spock refuse a meld, long fingers settle on his face. Jim rewards him by slipping inside, and…oh shit, it's too tight, the friction is too _good_ , there is no way this is isn't hurting Spock right now, and there is also no way Jim is stopping. Sorry.

Except that Spock is saying _yes_ and _more_ and something in Vulcan that translate more or less into _you are as luminous and guiding as Eridanus to me_ , _yet as frightening as the fiercest sandstorm,_ and Jim—Jim doesn't speak Vulcan.

His mind and body have crashed into Spock's, and the yearning, the agony, the uncertainty of the last few years are there, mirrored in his lover's mind, swelling around them, dissolving within the sweetness of pleasure and relief.

Spock moans helplessly, head falling back, and Jim let's himself go under without ever wishing for air.

...

By the following morning, by the time it is imperative that he leaves and gets to some moderate hacking, he has come inside Spock's body and mind so many times that the Vulcan is limp, lying on his front, arms clutching a pillow.

They have not slept, and yet Jim is not tired.

The connection between their minds pulsates, still intact only thanks to their proximity. Jim knows, and that is because he knows everything that Spock knows at this time, that it will severe as soon as he reaches the corridor and the door of Spock's cabin closes behind him.

Perhaps because of it, he can't help but play with his lover's body, hoarding impressions that will feed him over the last few months of the mission.

He traces the jutting shoulder blades, the prominent spine, the twin indentations at the small of his back. He slides his fingers between Spock's buttocks and plays with his delicate anus, sensing his discomfort through their link and yet unable to stop himself from penetrating it once more, from scooping the seed still tricking out and pushing it back inside Spock's body.

When he's satisfied with his handiwork, he bends to murmur into the skin of Spock's nape. "I will see you in five months and seventeen days, Mister Spock."

If anyone else were around, Spock would probably punctiliously correct Jim, remind him that they will have Beta together tonight, and Alpha tomorrow, and the weekly department head-meeting before then.

As it is, Spock just smiles his non-smile, and nods without opening his eyes.

Jim knows, because presently he knows all that Spock knows, that he is afraid, of Jim and of what Jim is to him. That nothing, in all his years, has prepared him to deal with this degree of intensity. That he will try to flee and hide behind hid shields at the earliest opportunity. And that he does not trust himself to let Jim go were he to open his eyes.

The last thing that reverberates inside his head, right before his link with Spock unties, is a feeling of scorching sunlight and coarse red sand against his skin.

...

After his shower, Jim grabs a PADD he rarely uses and pulls up the tentative calendar of the remainder of the mission.

There are one hundred and sixty-seven days left before they are scheduled to arrive at Earth Spacedock.

Jim does not know yet that in the next one hundred and sixty-seven days he will be held hostage once and tortured twice, and that both situations will arise because of poor intel provided by Starfleet.

He does not know that the ship will be boarded, that the crew will have to fight for their lives, and that as a result Spock will spend ten days in a healing trance. At that time, they will be transporting Commodore Singh to Starbase V and, of course, it will not be acceptable for Jim to sit at Spock's bedside, or to lay one hand on his chest to reassure himself of his breathing. The imprints left by Spock's mind on his own, still tender and hollow, will be his only comfort.

Without closing the file, Jim props the PADD against his bedside table and heads to his closet for a fresh uniform.

...

Jim's countdown reveals to be foolish.

It's not that, because of the series of near-death disasters that Komack has the guts of calling 'hiccups' to Jim's face, the five-year mission winds up being extended.

The problem is that Starfleet cannot resist the promise of the type of lazy, easy publicity that comes with having the picture of a young and good-looking Captain who has saved Earth a handful of time all over the holos.

Never mind that in the last six years or so the Admiralty have been as supportive and affable to Jim (and, by extension, his crew) as the Klingons and the Romulans combined. Never mind, either, that he was only one of almost five hundred, all qualified and indispensible to the success of the mission.

Everyone else is on a prolonged shore leave as Jim sits through interviews and press conferences for days at end, smiling tiredly while day-dreaming of holding Spock down and driving him wild by licking his way up his ass.

All the while, being perfectly aware that his former first officer has surely already run off to Andor or some other planet in an even further quadrant, scared shitless at the thought of actually being happy and _with_ Jim for once.

No matter. As he answers the tenth question about what his favorite foods in space were with completely made up responses, he mentally plots how to flush Spock out of the mental hiding hole he's bound to be in and have him face the fact that the two of them being is love is not akin to having one's nails pulled out.

At least, not now that frat regs don't apply anymore.

He smiles ruefully when the zealous ensign who's been tasked to shuttle him from one event to another questions him about the second five-year mission, scheduled to leave ten months from now. "Do you think you'll insist on being part of it?"

"We'll see," he replies. "Unlikely," he amends, thinking, _No_.

The stars can do without him for a while, and vice versa.

When he finally surfaces from the swamp that is Starfleet's public relation's effort, he wearily makes his way to his assigned lodgings. The view of the bay through the large window of his living room is breathtaking, especially at night, the lights filtering inside the apartment and reminding him of the blur of the stars.

He can live like this, he thinks. Though he does have _that_ thing he needs to take care of, before.

He grabs his comm to place a call to HR. It's the best way to figure out if Spock is still on planet, which Jim doubts, but maybe he's in some lab toiling over petri dishes or fitting fancy statistical models to the latest astrophysical recordings. Jim figures he has probably already left for New Vulcan, what with Sarek always trying to guilt Spock into coming home and help at the colo—

"Welcome home, Jim."

Jim flips his comm closed and turns, a wide smile on his lips.


End file.
